


Secrets and Lies

by fawatson



Category: MASH (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-04-06 08:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Charles reminisces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/gifts).



> **Request:** Winchester was my favourite character. I loved the growth his character went through. Happy for however you would like them to get together. If you're wanting a prompt, though - maybe Hawkeye finds out that Winchester is gay (repressed much?)
> 
>  **Author’s Notes:**  
>  (a) Charles’ quotation toward the end of Chapter 5 is from Ralph Waldo Emerson.  
> (b) In Chapter 8 there is a reference to an anti-Vietnam War protest held on 27/06/1967 in Los Angeles. After a march, protesters staged a sit-down at the hotel where President Lyndon B Johnson was giving a speech at a Democratic fundraiser.  
> (c) In Chapter 9 Donna's last sentence is a quotation from Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** Many thanks to my beta reader for her editing suggestions which made such a difference to this story. Many thanks also to the Mods for their supportive suggestions on how to improve this story; it is much the better for their help.

“You do know you are not going to die,” was the first thing Charles said, after spotting Margaret sitting in bed one knitting a yellow and orange winter hat. 

“I certainly hope not,” she replied. 

“Hope has nothing to do with it,” he replied with calm certainty. “I won’t hear of it.” 

“Who is your surgeon?” he asked; and when she told him, he allowed, “Good man, but not the best.” 

“And I suppose you are?” she responded, an edge to her voice.

“Of course.”

But there was no point in discussing it with her, not that that would have ever occurred to him. He was the doctor – she the nurse. In Korea there had always been a chain of command in their communications which transcended the simple fact that her commission pre-dated his. It was no different now, stateside. He discussed it with Dr Roberts who was indeed skilled. Massachusetts General had nothing but good men; it was, after all, the premier facility in this part of the country. Roberts had a lot of experience. But Charles was senior. There was no argument; quietly Margaret was transferred from one doctor’s patient list to another. 

There were people sitting by her bed during rounds next morning: an elderly woman, still attractive, with silvery hair conservatively styled, and a coltish-looking lad. Charles scarcely glanced in their direction. Deliberately, of course: he wasn't about to make an exception, even for Margaret. He had never been in favour of visitors outside set hours; it seemed messy and sentimental. But the decision had not been in his hands. The hospital had agreed a relaxation of the usual ward discipline once research demonstrated patient recovery was enhanced with familial support. Not that this was allowed in post-op recovery or intensive care; there, strict medical discipline continued to be prioritised. But the general oncology ward was different. 

He started the other end of the ward and worked round, students trailing behind him, Head Nurse one step to his left, one of her juniors pushing the trolley with medical charts. It took well over an hour before he stood before Margaret’s bed, stern and unsmiling as he reviewed treatment notes. When he looked up the visitors had gone, tactfully sent in search of coffee from the hospital cafeteria to enable the doctor to examine his patient in some semblance of privacy. He stood frowning for a moment while one of the students pulled a curtain around the bed, then approached Margaret’s right side, where he took her pulse and bent to listen to her breathing, before nodding to the Head Nurse who unbuttoned Margaret’s pyjama top and pulled the left half to one side. Gently Charles palpated her breast with clinical precision before he nodded and the Nurse swiftly rebuttoned the top. Silently he added to the notes on the chart. Then, Surgeon and Head Nurse exchanged a few words before the trolley was wheeled away and the students were summarily dismissed. Only Charles remained. 

Margaret had remained silent throughout the examination. Now, as he drew up a chair, she remarked, “The nurses told me you’d taken over my case.” 

“Did you expect otherwise?”

“Not really, I remember your arrogance of old.” Her words were sharp but her wide smile and the relief in her eyes sent a different message. 

“You always were a good nurse,” Charles admitted, “and could recognise the best when you saw it.” His smile, and the warmth in his eyes, also tempered his arrogant drawl. 

“You’ve come to tell me you are going ahead with the operation, haven’t you,” said Margaret. 

“Most definitely, yes,” replied Charles. There was a brief pause before he added, “there really is no viable alternative. The cancer has not yet reached your lymph node, which is the good news. But it appears an aggressive type, so while there is no evidence, as yet, of it having spread, that is only a matter of time. My professional judgment is we should not give it that time.” 

He paused again, before continuing awkwardly. “You’ll want me to tell your family, I presume.” It was an all too familiar task, a duty he would never shirk, but one he never enjoyed. 

“You presume _not_.” Margaret spoke decisively but without heat. She hesitated, then asked, “when?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?” 

“I see no reason for delay - unless…” a thought had just occurred to him, “you have some personal reason to want to delay? Medically it would not be recommended, far from it: delay can only work against you with a malignancy such as this.” 

“No…no…it’s just….”

“Just?”

“I’ve never told….”

Charles’ raised eyebrows spoke for him. 

“My…,” she said somewhat disjointedly, “I’ve never said anything…and my mother doesn’t know either. And if I die–“

“Margaret, you are not going to die,” Charles said firmly. “You have my word on it.” 

“And I suppose I should just accept that!” 

“A Winchester always keeps his word.”

The half-closed curtain twitched and a head topped by a shock of straight dark brown hair peeked round. 

“They had hot chocolate, Mom, and carrot cake. I brought you back a piece.” 

And Charles’ breath caught; he knew just what it was Margaret had not said.


	2. Chapter 2

It was almost unheard of for a surgeon to sit with a patient before the operation. That was normally the job of a nurse. But today there was a half-hour break in the schedule which saw Charles shoo away the junior and pull up a chair. Margaret was drowsy from the pre-op injection but fighting it, and made a snide remark about promotions as he seated himself at her side. 

“Relax,” he commanded, “There will be a short delay while they set up theatre to my satisfaction and we can get started.”

“Always things have to be done _your_ way,” Margaret retorted. 

“Of course.” He raised a supercilious brow.

Oh, that brought back memories! Smiling, Margaret asked, “Tell me, Charles: why the change?” 

“I beg your pardon?” he drawled. Up went the chin. “I have always been particular about wanting things done the right way.” 

“Not that – why oncology? When you came back from Korea you had plans to be chief of cardio-thoracic surgery.” 

“And I was,” he said, “for a time. But a year later my father developed lung cancer. While I helped in his treatment, it brought home that in this field _I_ was little more than an intern.” 

Margaret nodded, understanding. She remembered Charles’s sarcasm when he first arrived at the 4077th about the shortcuts and time-saving techniques he had subsequently embraced and developed the longer he had stayed. To the end he had made scathing remarks about meatball surgery and how his surgical skills were withering away; but the reality was his skills had expanded exponentially under the pressures of war. Having been his scrub nurse she knew how driven he was to achieve perfection. No matter how much he respected the man treating his father, Charles could only have hated deferring to him. 

“One thing led to another,” Charles continued, “and inevitably I became Chief of Surgical Oncology.” 

“Inevitably,” Margaret echoed, laughing at him. 

“To _your_ betterment,” Charles added. “Roberts is a good man; but if one can, one should always go straight to the top. 

“Same old Charles,” murmured Margaret, “no false modesty.” The pre-op medication was taking deeper hold. 

“Never.” Charles did not add how roundly he had cursed the limits of his expertise when his sister Honoria developed a malignancy in her breast two years before. His self-effacing gentle sister had ignored symptoms for too long and had had a very difficult time of it. Not unlike Margaret herself, Charles thought. Her cancer should not be so advanced – would not have been so advanced had she not accepted her GP’s blithe – _ignorant_ – reassurances when she first went to him with those early symptoms. All those months wasted…. 

He had not seen Margaret for years; and had Charles been asked the week before, he would have said he felt no desire to see her. But finding her here, in _his_ hospital – on _his_ ward – reminded him how much all of that motley crew in Korea had really meant to him. He had left that benighted country with never a backward glance. But he had brought with him enduring memories. 

Rigid discipline practiced his entire professional life meant he suppressed memories when the orderly came a few minutes later to wheel Margaret to theatre. Charles scrubbed efficiently and thoroughly while reviewing x-rays hung before a light in front of the sink, reminding himself which instruments to use in which order. At least this surgery, carefully planned following several diagnostic tests and examinations, held no surprises. Modern medicine in Massachusetts was quite unlike the primitive conditions and hasty emergency amputations, gastrectomies, and resected bowels he had performed in Korea. 

Hers was the last surgery of the morning. He saw Margaret wheeled into recovery while he exited in the opposite direction to remove gloves, mask and gown and don the ubiquitous lab coat. Relatives had their own waiting area. He had delegated the task of seeing anxious husbands and wives, sons and daughters of his earlier surgical cases to his third year resident. Now only Margaret’s family were left; he would see them himself. Her mother was as expected – a dignified well-groomed woman, much of an age with his own mother, concerned about her only daughter, but both willing to be reassured herself and mindful of the need to project a confident aura to the youth she shepherded. 

The boy was another matter. Piercing blue eyes scanned him while he asked searching questions. He was tall for his age, thin built, with prominent nose. His face was solemn and worried. Charles fancied he left it less worried though no less thoughtful. Hoped he had, at least; Margaret’s operation had been textbook perfect (even if he did say so himself). He directed them to the hospital cafeteria. Not hungry? No matter, perhaps they would prefer to wait in the park opposite, for Margaret would be in recovery for a while and in no state to see them. 

For himself, he was peckish (as usually he was following a morning’s surgery). His housekeeper had prepared him a light luncheon and Charles retreated to his office to enjoy a light repast of brie with slices neatly cut from a nice crusty loaf, olives, cucumber and fresh strawberries, before he pulled open a folder with his latest notes for a research paper for the _British Journal of Cancer_. But he could not concentrate, no matter that it was an invited paper and the deadline looming. In disgust, Charles retreated from desk to armchair and the latest copy of the _American Journal of Medical Sciences_ which but waited for him to find a free moment to read. He perused the table of contents – Ah! “An epidemiological study of the incidence of tumours amongst city dwellers _versus_ country-dwellers.” That looked promising. 

But, again, he could not focus. In the end, inwardly cursing, he gave in and turned to the next article, _not_ one about his own specialism, though, he fancied, one could do worse than keep up one’s knowledge about other areas of practice: “Survival Rates in Trauma Medicine” by Dr BF Pierce. Yet once again he did not read, but leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his chest, and _remembered_.


	3. Chapter 3

Within an hour of his arrival at the 4077th, he had had Hawkeye pegged as a prankster; it had not taken that much longer before he realised BJ was even more the comedian, just a little more subtle about it. But no Winchester was a pushover and he had not been a member of the Fly Club for nothing. The snake in the bed was just the start. He was told about the time Hawkeye short-sheeted Frank Burns’ bed. No one had ever done it to Hawkeye though, not until Charles. School-boy pranks, though. He could do better. He should do better. A Winchester would do better!

_(He did do better. The eminent surgeon looked down at his high-polished shoes with a small, close smirk. Oh, yes, he remembered well.)_

His crowning glory was the time Radar wanted to get a tattoo. Hawkeye was so hard on the lad. Not that Charles approved of them, either. But the impulse to mark his skin with some kind of crude image was only to be expected of a young man from Radar’s background. _He_ would not have interfered; but he watched as Hawkeye tied himself up in knots at the idea and bribed a visiting sergeant to talk to the boy, all to no avail. And an idea was born. 

He had had to bide his time; fortunately he was a patient man. The inks and brushes he was able to source locally. Rosie knew someone who knew someone else…. It cost him half a month’s pay but in due course Charles found himself in possession of a full kit with the reds and blues and greens as well as the black ink that he had originally requested. He smirked as he checked it – chuckled out loud at lunch as he contemplated the disgusted look Hawkeye would wear when he realised he had, not just a tattoo, but a work of ‘art’. 

“Ok, Charles,” Pierce challenged. “Just what’s so funny about chipped beef on burnt toast that it got you laughing?” 

“One has either to laugh or cry,” retorted Charles. “And a Winchester never cries unless it is truly worthwhile. This _swill_ is not worthy of _my_ tears.” With which he stalked out of the tent. 

He could hear Hawkeye laughing, “Just got to admire that man’s spirit – he never gives in!” while he scraped the remains of the revolting meal into the bin. 

The difficulty was Charles was no artist. He knew _about_ art but had no skills at it. In the end Charles had to enlist the help of Colonel Potter to bring it off. 

“Another one of those elaborate pranks you lot are always playing, _I_ see,” Potter had said. “Just as long as it’s nothing permanent.”

He had authorised a 24 hour pass to Seoul; and Klinger had organised a chopper ride in return for a promise of some god-awful gaudy gold and crystal earrings that had caught his eye at the end of his last trip when he had already spent all his money. Klinger also supplied the name of a tattooist. 

“A regular Remborough,” he promised. 

“That’s Rem _brandt_ , you cretin,” Charles corrected, exasperated, “or _Gains_ borough.”

“Just what I said,” Klinger agreed, nodding.

There was some reluctance on the part of the tattooist; he had his own designs of which he was proud and did not want to spend time creating a design to another man’s specifications. But Charles was determined and persistent; in the end the tattooist was persuaded. At the end of 24 hours Charles returned, with a fine bottle of cognac proudly displayed, and the necessary stencil and a set of fine sable brushes hidden in his bag. 

It just waited for the right moment. 

“When, Major?”

“Patience, Max,” Charles, “the time is not yet right.” 

Then came the week when BJ was sent to Tokyo to a seminar about a new arterial grafting technique, much to Hawkeye’s chagrin. 

“You lucky stiff,” he congratulated BJ, as the man packed his duffel. “What I wouldn’t give for 48 hours away from this hell-hole.” 

“Maybe Colonel Potter will give you a pass if you ask.” 

“He already turned me down,” said Hawkeye, fiddling with the still, before pouring himself a drink, "said he couldn’t spare two of us at the same time. Just remember to get me those magazines – and chocolate. Don’t forget the chocolate! I’ve been tasting it in my dreams for the last month and it would be nice to savour it awake for once.” 

“Anything for you, Charles?” BJ asked as he got into the jeep to head out. 

“A copy of Emerson’s Essays, if you can find such a thing,” Charles replied. “But I fear, even in Tokyo, that Pearl of the Orient, it will be impossible.” 

“I’ll do my best,” BJ promised as he started the jeep; and with a little wave he drove off. 

The afternoon brought in one ambulance with just two non-critical casualities, quickly dealt with by the Colonel and Hawkeye. 

As they changed out of their gowns after surgery, Klinger came in to announce he had taken a call from HQ announcing a lull in the fighting. 

“Damn it all! I could have gone with BJ if we’d only been told sooner!” Hawkeye exclaimed. 

“Never mind,” soothed Potter, “I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse yourself.”

“There is always the Game of Kings,” Charles suggested when Hawkeye returned to the Swamp. “I was planning to catch up reading the last month’s issues of medical journals; but since it appears we will have some time before the next wave of mangled bodies is sent our way, I could spare you the time for a game or two.” 

One game of chess and one gin cocktail later and Hawkeye was nicely passed out face downwards on his cot. 

“How did you manage to administer the sedative without Hawkeye getting suspicious?” asked the Colonel. 

“I doctored the still while he was in the OR. I knew he’d make a beeline for it as soon as he was finished in surgery.” 

Colonel Potter just shook his head and chuckled. He gave a great belly laugh when Charles unearthed the stencil, inks, and brushes from his footlocker. 

“You did it – you really did it!”

“No, it’s not done _yet_ ,” drawled Charles, “but it soon will be.” 

Carefully he bared Hawkeye’s back, wiped it clean with alcohol, and gently dried it before placing the stencil on the skin. Colonel Potter’s watercolour of the MASH personnel had been made into a stencil, the subtleties of colour and shading reduced to simple clear lines. Normally a tattooist would trace the pattern on skin using the stencil and then go over it with needles and ink to make it permanent. Now, Charles on the left and Colonel Potter on the right, painted the inks – red, blue, green, and black – onto Hawkeye’s back. 

“He’ll know it cannot be permanent, you know,” Potter reminded, “a real tattoo _hurts_ and this one won’t.” 

“That will be after he finds out he has a tattoo. Remember we are doing this to his back. Everyone else will see it long before Hawkeye.” 

“How do you propose…? No – don’t tell me.” Colonel Potter shook his head. 

The next morning shone bright and clear, the sun rising early in a brilliant blue sky. It was a scorcher, a day when women wore shorts and men donned thin t-shirts in the morning and stripped them off by midday if they were doing anything too strenuous. 

Hawkeye had woken late and spent the first half of the day relaxing in a deckchair nursing the grandfather of all hangovers. However, in the afternoon he found himself roped into a working party that was replacing the white cross on the upper helicopter pad. His beloved Hawaiian shirt was removed and carefully laid on a large rock by the side of the landing pad. He turned back to raucous laughter.

Something was up - something involving his shirt? He turned back to check it, but the shirt lay innocently on the rock looking the same as it always did. An even louder wave of laughter swelled as he perused it. Hawkeye faced forward. By now the whole work crew was grinning and hooting.

"Ok, ok, the joke's on me this time," Hawkeye shrugged good naturedly, "but what?"

“You seem to have…changed colour… when you changed your shirt,” Rizzo smirked. “N-i-c-e to see a bit of colour on an officer.”

Hawkeye frowned. It couldn’t be sunburn. He twisted his neck and left shoulder trying to look at his back – an anatomical possibility, he well knew, but it was frustrating to be the butt of some prank and not know what. Then he caught sight of a reflection in the windscreen of one of the jeeps that had brought them up to the pad. He stood rigid, horrified. The garish tattoo covered his entire back from the nape of his neck to… he twisted again while loosening his belt so he could check… God it even stretched down his buttocks! He was covered like the tattooed man at the carnival! He was…able to move freely, without pain. He _knew_ he hadn’t had a tattoo yesterday. If it were a real tattoo he’d be in agony today. His entire body relaxed in palpable relief. 

Hawkeye looked at his friends – at Margaret who was doubled over slapping her thighs with laughter – at Father Mulcahy who positively beamed with joy – at Colonel Potter who was chuckling uncontrollably. The Colonel…the camp artist. 

"Et tu, Brute!" Of all the camp, Potter was the one person he'd have least suspected of practical jokes. 

“I’m afraid I can’t claim the credit,” Colonel Potter said, pointing at Charles who stood to one side, hands in pockets, and a delighted grin on his face. “It was his idea; I just provided the painting to copy.” 

“You rat!” Hawkeye exclaimed, shaking his head. “Gentlemen – Ladies–” he strode to Charles’ side and lifted his colleague’s arm in a champion's salute, “we are in the presence of greatness!” 

He laughed and swept a deep bow with a wide flourish of his arms. 

“Though you do know, I’m going to have to get you back for this,” he added sotto voce. 

“Of course,” Charles whispered, only barely loud enough for Hawkeye to hear, “I would expect nothing less.” 

He had planned this joke as the next step in the perpetual one-up-man-ship games played between the denizens of the Swamp. But as the afternoon wore on, and Hawkeye postured and posed for photographs, laughing, and generally enjoying the prank played on him just as much as if he had been the prankster, Charles realised the joke was really on himself: somehow in this revolting cesspit of creation – a place which challenged the very concepts of decency, grace, or honour – he had found a man to love. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hawkeye fell in and out of love easily. Or so it seemed at first. After sharing with him for a few months Charles knew otherwise. Nothing _really_ touched Benjamin Franklin Pierce deeply except medicine. He chased after every nurse newly assigned to the 4077th but moved on quickly to the next, without any backward glances when his latest inamorata was rotated out and a fresh face joined the team. It had taken Charles a good year to learn that, for all his apparent womanising, rampant libido, and promiscuity, Hawkeye rarely consummated his affairs. There was a lot more touch and tickle, and an enormous amount of posturing; but Charles could count on the fingers of one hand (with some left over) the number of women Hawkeye had actually had intercourse with. 

Some of this, of course, was because the nursing staff were all decent respectable women, with the new ones warned off by the others when they first arrived. They all had aspirations of marriage and children; but this was something which so very clearly did not interest Hawkeye. The married ones could be more amenable to consummating an affair but the real risk of pregnancy led to caution. A husband back home (or posted to a combat unit) might turn a blind eye to his wife straying when he was not nearby (what was sauce for the gander being also a suitable baste for the goose, so to speak); but he would not tolerate the kind of confirmation of infidelity that an illegitimate child would bring. 

There was no real privacy in the Swamp. And they were all still fairly young: the male animal in its prime experiences a certain physical imperative. The odour of dirt was not the only smell Charles had had to learn to tolerate. Lust had its own scent, and sharing a confined space meant inevitably, _unwillingly,_ the men learned one another’s fantasies and the signs which revealed when one of them had given in to the comfort of his own hand. 

BJ was as straight as a die and peculiarly prudish. He viewed even self-gratification as some kind of betrayal of his wife. He worked himself to exhaustion as often as he could, including during lulls between battles. Normally those times were spent helping Father Mulcahy at the orphanage. Heavy labour fixing the roof or fitting shelves meant he slept more soundly. 

Hawkeye was the opposite. He would go out with one of the nurses to Rosie’s bar and burrow under the covers after he returned. His nights would be restless, and his bedding crumpled and stained when he rose the next morning. 

And Charles himself? 

“Playing Mahler, again, I see,” Hawkeye remarked quietly one morning, after BJ had left early to go off with Father Mulcahy on some mission of mercy, “and not those dead children thing-a-mes.”

“Kindertotenlieder,” Charles corrected in his most blasé tone, “are one of the most sublime and pure expressions of grief ever composed.” 

“Well it wasn’t _grief_ that occupied you last evening,” quipped Hawkeye. “It seemed to me there was altogether a more _uplifting_ kind of atmosphere when I got back to the tent after seeing Nurse Abel.”

“Mahler’s Fifth Symphony is an old favourite of mine,” Charles allowed. 

“Well I’m taking my sheets to the laundry in the village and I can take yours too if you want.” 

Charles glowered. It was bad enough having to share – having absolutely no privacy – knowing the others must know. But to talk about it was just _too much._

“Don’t get huffy, Charles,” Hawkeye said quietly, calmly. “You’re human, just like the rest of us.” 

Had he said one more word Charles thought he might have hit him; but Hawkeye just bent and stripped the sheets off Charles’ cot and bundled them with his own before he left the tent whistling. 

Charles stared after him. They had had very different childhoods. Charles was the only son of an elite Boston family, raised in a privileged household, but nonetheless with a Spartan upbringing which his father had told him would build character. In contrast, Hawkeye – also an only son – had run free in the Maine countryside in a childhood filled with love and laughter. How Charles envied him. How he yearned for all the freedom and joy that Hawkeye represented…. How he yearned for Hawkeye. 

The man had a charisma which drew all to him, but it was not a hollow charm. Charles had seen him enraged by injustice – had seen him rail against the stupid bureaucracy of the war – had seen him bend to sniff the scent of flower buds growing by the road in springtime. He could be the heart and soul of the party one minute and serious the next when an ambulance drove up. That was the one thing they shared completely: their mutual love of medicine. 

Charles had never really been in love before. When he was seventeen, he had had a short-lived crush on the school’s drama teacher. It had been his last year of high school; and he knew by then his vocation and also that his marks would be good enough to secure him entry to the college of his choice. He had relaxed his studies and, looking around, there the teacher was. It had been utter foolishness, of course. The man was younger than most of the school’s teachers, and strikingly handsome. The school he attended was for boys only, of course. But its female counterpart just across a field shared certain classes with his school. Drama was one of them. The girls mooned over the teacher and giggled, much to Charles’ disgust; Mr Edwards had been clearly embarrassed by their attentions. Charles took it as a sign this teacher had likely sought a post at a boys’ school for good reason. Then came the school fête and Mrs Edwards had brought their baby son; the sight of their obvious happiness together had knocked the silly fantasies Charles had been having clean out of him. 

At Harvard, Charles had squired the daughter of one of his father’s friends for a couple of years. She finished her English degree long before his course was complete, met her future husband within three weeks of starting work in his firm, and following a whirlwind romance, married him amidst much pomp and circumstance. To his mother, Charles was able to pretend to be heartbroken, which saved him the bother of finding someone else to invite home for family parties for the next few years. His father was dropping heavy hints about the need to settle down at the point when Charles received his letter from the Draft Board. That had been the only good thing to come from being drafted. That last leave before he left for Korea his father had taken Charles to one side to issue a warning. 

“When you are in a foreign land, away from all that is familiar, it is easy to imagine yourself in love with that pretty nurse who is so sweet to you. It is never easy to be forced to spend time with people you would normally never meet but whom you have to depend on because of the stressful situation you find yourself in. It leaves one less…discerning. But these wartime romances never last, son,” Charles Emerson Winchester II had said heavily, “I know myself from experience; and then there is the messy business of breaking off the engagement when you return home and have had a chance to reflect and meet a more suitable companion.” 

There had been more of the same, ponderous, well-meaning, earnest words. Charles had listened politely out of respect for his father whom he admired. In truth, though, he gave only cursory attention to what his father was saying. He knew himself immune to a whirlwind romance with a pretty young nurse. 

He had not realised the real risk came from the prospect of a whirlwind romance with a handsome doctor. Or – from the lack of such as prospect, for all too clearly Hawkeye preferred women.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been Charles’ turn to help at a Battalion Aid station. Only one doctor was needed. BJ had gone last time; and the Colonel and Hawkeye had gone the time before that. This time it was Charles who spent 48 hours at the aid station closest to Hill 403, as pestilent a hell-hole as there ever would be, with the dead bodies of men who had not survived piled around the scanty shelter that housed the wounded who just might make it if they got the medical care they needed in time. Those 48 hours had felt like 72, before finally he was free to return to the relative safety of the 4077th. 

Charles drove as fast as road and jeep would let him and drank liberally from his hip flask as he headed back down the hill. He drove, as one sometimes does in these circumstances, off the side of the road, past a large prickly shrub and over some very bumpy terrain, before coming to a stop in a stream. He sat in the jeep for a few minutes, shaken by his sudden departure from the paved surface. 

Presently he felt a tap on his shoulder and around to find Hawkeye looking at him solicitously.

“Are you all right?” 

“I think….”

“Here, let me help.” Hawkeye held out his arm. “You came down that hill at quite a clip.”

Charles stumbled from the jeep, leaning heavily on Hawkeye as he lurched to the grassy side of the stream, where he sat suddenly as his balance gave way. 

“What are you doing way out here?” he asked Hawkeye. 

“It’s not so way out, you know,” Hawkeye replied. “We’re only about 500 yards from the camp.”

Charles put his hands up to his head and blinked several times. “I’m drunk.”

“I know,” said Hawkeye, “you’re also hurt.” 

“I am?” Charles looked down at himself. “I am.” He felt nothing.

There was a long jagged blood-stained tear in his left pants’ leg. 

“Let me have a look.” Hawkeye deftly unfastened Charles’ belt and the button and zip to his pants. 

“No, no, let me….”

“No – let _me_.” Hawkeye pulled while Charles pushed ineffectually and in short order the pants were laid to one side. 

“I think it’s just a scratch – deep enough to bleed a bit, but essentially superficial. You shouldn’t even be left with a scar.” 

Charles nodded. Vaguely, he felt it starting to hurt.

“But that ankle is sprained badly.”

Charles shivered suddenly and convulsively. “And I’m in shock,” he realized. 

“Here,” Hawkeye took off his jacket and draped it around Charles’ shoulders, then sat, put his arms around him, and held him close. 

Charles put his arms round Hawkeye, clinging on as if for dear life. To his horror, tears rolled down his cheeks and soaked into Hawkeye’s undershirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I don’t know what’s come over me.” 

“You don’t need to apologise. I was at Battalion Aid last year – remember?”

“There was a man with only one arm and one leg – the other side was blown off,” Charles said into Hawkeye’s shoulder, only just loudly enough for Hawkeye to make out his words. “They brought him in; and he died before I could do anything – just looked at me, alive one minute and dead the next. They took him back out; and when I left he was there by the door, looking at me from the heap of dead bodies as I drove away.”

“I know,” said Hawkeye softly. _“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.”_

“Cicero,” Charles murmured. “Yes, you do know.” He pulled back slightly so he could look Hawkeye straight in the face. “But until now I _didn’t._ I _loathe_ the 4077th. I thought nothing could be worse…and now I’ve seen hell.”

Hawkeye looked steadily back but said nothing. 

“On the way back, I couldn’t stop thinking about that dead man, and somehow, as I drank, he began to look like you.” Charles’ face twisted in a wry grin. “So I drank more, and had an accident, and then you were there – here.” He looked around him at the grassy slope and the tree a few feet away. “You know I love you, don’t you,” Charles said quietly. 

“I’d guessed.”

“It is not a thing I am proud of,” explained Charles. “I am a Winchester; I have duties and responsibilities to my family. I would never have said anything except…,” he paused and his face strained with painful intense sincerity, while Hawkeye waited silently. “I could not see what I have seen in the last day and _not_ speak, even though my feelings run counter to everything my family has ever taught me, and all they expect from me.” 

Hawkeye breathed in deeply, opened his mouth to speak, then let his breath out slowly and looked off into the distance for several tense moments before he turned back, grimacing. “I’m the one who always has ‘the answer’ – but I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing, then,” Charles said. _“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”_

“Now you’re the one quoting the classics,” remarked Hawkeye. “I may not be able to be all you want; but I will be eternally grateful to be considered your friend,” he said. He smiled, and leaned close and, for the first and last time, kissed Charles gently on the cheek, “a friend for life.”

For a split second as Hawkeye had leaned forward, his intent clear, Charles had had the impulse to turn his head suddenly so their lips met. But from earliest childhood he had been taught, exhorted, reminded, and yes - punished - and his training held true: a Winchester does not give in to base instincts. Charles remained utterly still for one moment, only the slight droop of his eyelids and glistening in his eyes betraying the depth of his emotions, before he held out his hand and said, "Help me up then, friend."


	6. Chapter 6

It was fully three days post-op before Charles saw Margaret’s family again. Once again, it was a distant glimpse as her mother and son took themselves off to the hospital cafeteria at the beginning of ward rounds. Once again, Charles ensured Margaret was his last patient; and he stayed to chat after dismissing the Head Nurse and his students. 

“Your wound is healing nicely.” 

“I am a nurse, you know Charles,” she retorted, “with some experience of surgical recovery.” 

“Of course,” he allowed. “I just thought you might want to reassure your family: your mother…your son.”

“Thank you.” 

“They’ve been very devoted, visiting you daily.”

“Yes,” Margaret smiled. 

“But, not your father.” His voice was level and expressionless, but Margaret heard his question, nonetheless. 

“No, not Dad.” Her lips twisted with the memory of old pain. “When I resigned my commission three months after returning from Korea he was surprised. When he discovered _why_ , he was shocked. And when I refused to name the father, he was livid. It was unheard of for Howitzer Al Houlihan’s daughter to be ‘knocked up’! He might have forgiven it, if he had been able to go after the man with a shotgun and I had got married, albeit after the fact. But when I stood up to him and refused?” She gave a bitter laugh, “He cut me out of his life…. My mother was more tolerant.” 

“But…forgive me Margaret, but _why_? Pierce had his faults but he would never have left you in the lurch.” 

“I know,” she admitted. “He even said as much when we said goodbye.” She smiled as she noticed Charles shaking his head in mystification. "And you're right: if he had known he'd have insisted on marrying me and I wouldn't have been strong enough to resist. I'd have wound up just a wife and mother, with maybe a chance of nursing sometime in the future if I could find a job. Or we'd have got divorced, sooner rather than later. You know how it is with these war-time romances - God knows, I already knew it from my marriage to Donald. It would have been messy at best - and then my son would have been torn in two between us. I had a hard enough time dealing with it when my own parents divorced, and I was in my twenties. You know what I'm saying is true." 

Charles made an indistinct sound of assent, lips pursed involuntarily in disapproval, but ultimately unable to disagree.

"We had those three days waiting in Tokyo for the flights back, and that was enough for both of us." Margaret sighed. "There's a little part of me that will always love him-"

Yes, thought Charles. 

"-just as I expect there's some tiny bit of him that remembers me. But we are just too different. Apart, we can stay fond of one another, enjoy the memories-"

All the memories....

"But marriage?" It was Margaret who shook her head now. "We'd have ended up hating one another. You had more in common with him than I had."

Charles was sure ... quite sure ... that he did not wince, at least not visibly. A Winchester has self-control. "But not to tell him he has a son, Margaret," he said, not exactly changing the subject, even if it felt that way. "It may have been only three days in Tokyo, but-"

“You think that was wrong?” 

“You think it was _right_?”

“I don’t know. 

She expected Charles to jump in with some sarcastic protest. The Charles of old was never slow to give his opinion, but this Charles stayed silent, waiting for some kind of explanation, patient but clearly determined to hear more. Undoubtedly, Margaret thought, Charles Winchester III was thinking of Charles Winchester IV and how he would feel if he had been kept in the dark about his own son. She shrugged, giving in to his unspoken demand.

"It seemed right at the time. When Ben was born we lived the other side of the country from Hawkeye. I was busy changing diapers, when I wasn’t relying on my mother to take care of my baby while I worked night shifts in the local hospital to keep a roof over our heads. Pierce was busy making a name for himself in emergency medicine. You know how much he’d have hated and resented anyone or anything that took his time away from his career; he wasn’t ready to be a father to a baby. ” 

“Ben…you called him Ben,” Charles said softly. 

“Yes.” 

They met each other’s eyes silently. 

Finally, Charles broke the silence. “Have you thought of telling him now – especially now?” He gestured toward her bandages.

“I don’t know…. Back then, perhaps it would have made sense, though I decided against it in the end. But now: Ben asked me a few questions three years ago but he’s shown no interest in his father since. He’s accepted that he doesn’t know him. We’re happy just the three of us. Besides, how would Pierce react to finding out I had his child?”

“Hawkeye’s never married, you know,” said Charles. It was something that might have made him wonder, if he hadn't been given his answer years ago. "He has no children – none that he knows about, that is.” 

“Hasn’t he…? No…I didn’t know. How do _you_ know?”

“He’s Chief of Emergency Medicine at Maine Medical Centre. We meet every so often at medical conferences. Blandly, he added, "He usually stays with me when he's in town for a symposium." He waited for a comment, a glance, a wink.

"Fancy the two of you keeping in touch," she said wonderingly. "You never seemed to develop a close friendship with anyone." 

No, he thought. She really never suspected a thing. Least of all that, when he'd first come to the MASH unit, he'd wondered about her, career Army nurse that she was. But the people at the 4077th knew everything about everyone, or thought they did. 'Close friendships' were something he'd never dared.

"I expected Pierce and Hunnicutt to stay in contact," she added. "You and Hawkeye?" She laughed. "I wouldn't have said the two of you had anything in common!"

"Mere propinquity," Charles drawled. He did not expound on the virtues of large houses, spare bedrooms, and a remarkable level of tact on both sides. Not to mention the blessing of a sympathetic ear from a fellow physician with whom he didn't have to watch his words. Instead, he added, "Hunnicutt is the other side of the country, while I am just a little over 100 miles south of him. If they ever get round to building the interstate instead of just talking about it, Hawkeye could drive here in less than two hours."

Odd, he thought. In a country the size of the United States of America, what were the chances that three ex-MASH personnel would all end up in such contiguity. Then again, Boston was full of Irish. He cocked his head and looked at Margaret, still Houlihan after all these years. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "that puts him two hours from you, too."

“I don’t know…”

“A boy needs a father, Margaret, especially once he reaches his teens and is old enough to appreciate how different his own family is from those of his friends.” Charles glanced over his shoulder and spotted Margaret’s family fast approaching. 

“Promise you won’t go behind my back and tell Pierce,” Margaret felt sudden alarm. 

“No, Margaret, my word on it,” Charles promised. “I just want you to think about it.”

He stood and nodded to the lanky youth who had reached his mother’s bedside first, his long legs faster than those of his grandmother.

“She _is_ all right, isn’t she?” asked the lad anxiously. “There haven’t been complications?”

“Her wound is healing nicely,” Charles smiled. “I was simply reminiscing with an old colleague from Korea.” 

As he walked slowly away he felt the lad’s eyes boring into his back. 

“You knew him in Korea, Mom? I've never met anyone you knew in Korea!" 

Charles closed his eyes briefly but kept walking steadily away as the inevitable was asked. 

"Did he know my father? You told me my father was a doctor. Is _he_ my father?”


	7. Chapter 7

When he could, Charles would listen to Mozart from the comfort of his leather wing chair in the study. Those times were all too infrequent. His was generally a busy household; this evening was no exception. Indeed, he should, by now, be playing host. Hawkeye had been invited to be on a panel about emergency medicine at tomorrow's conference; and, just that morning, he had rung to say he'd managed to swap shifts so he could get away early. Charles had been looking forward to a good long natter late into the night, just the two of them. Yet the clock had already chimed seven, and there had still been no ring at the door.

As he picked up his cognac to sip, Donna swept in, well presented in silk, lace and pearls, trailed by two young girls, both dressed in flannelette nighties, slippers and dressing gowns, one in blue, the other in pink. The younger immediately clambered onto his lap which necessitated some quick juggling to keep his glass from spilling.

"Hawkeye not here yet?" his wife asked rhetorically.

"No."

"Oh, well," Donna said perfunctorily, "I expect he's been delayed." And then, as the child reached for the amber-filled crystal, " _No_ , darling! Daddy's brandy is not for little girls." To Charles, she added, “Pauline and Charlotte are both ready for bed – _provided_ they do not eat any more sweets,” she aimed a stern look at her daughters, “in which case you’ll need to remind them to brush their teeth again.” She smiled at Charles: undoubtedly he would; he was a notably indulgent father. “Now mind: this is a school night and they need to be in bed by eight o’clock.”

“You look very nice,” Charles complimented. “Where are you going tonight?” 

“A benefit that’s being held for the Boston Philharmonic.” 

“Just a minute; I’ll give you a cheque.”

“No need,” Donna replied. “You have already donated.”

“I trust I was generous?” 

“Very–” She turned to the children, giving each a perfunctory peck on the cheek, followed by a warm hug. “Now mind your father and don’t be too boisterous; he had a long day at the hospital.” 

She was poised and perfect – everything a Winchester could hope for in a bride – and for one brief moment Charles was jealous that he was not the focus of her attention and wanted her to notice him. 

“Are you going with anyone?” 

“My friend Joanna.” 

Charles recognised the name. “Ah, yes. The two of you went to New York to see the Metropolitan Opera last month.” 

Joanna Evans was no threat. Her father might be an immigrant but her mother came from a junior branch of the Bridgeport Winthrops. Joanna had taken her degree at Smith College – not a patch on Harvard, of course – but nonetheless that background meant he could feel confident she knew the rules. It was a wonder she had resisted family pressures to marry; although, he supposed coming from a collateral line would have made it easier. She was a librarian at Portia Law School. Outside of this she seemed devoted to good works: improvement projects for Franklin Zoo, fundraising for the public library, and sitting on the board for Radcliffe’s scholarship fund. It left her with little time for anything else. His wife and Joanna had been on/off lovers for years; and when Winthrop relatives visited her in Boston the Winchesters always were invited to dine. Joanna had a rather nice little bow-front terrace house in South End, and could be trusted to serve the right wine with each course. 

“I hope you have a good time tonight.”

“I’m sure we shall. Just as I expect you will.”

"I'm a little surprised he hasn't arrived yet." He had been looking forward to seeing Hawkeye for several months, ever since he had phoned to discuss the conference and beg a bed for the night.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon.” She blew him a kiss from the study door, and then ... just the faintest whiff of her Chanel perfume reminded him she had been there.

That – and their daughters, who looked at him eagerly across the board game they had selected for that evening. The three of them were just finishing a game of Chinese checkers when the doorbell finally rang. He could hear the steps of the housekeeper, the sound of the opening door. The girls, however, were oblivious to off-scene noises, intent on their final moves. Not until Hawkeye was ushered through to the study did they look round, rush over, and hug him, clamouring for their Uncle Hawkeye to come play with them.

Charles managed to catch his eye.

"Yes, yes, in a minute," Hawkeye said to the girls. "Am I allowed to breathe?"

"No!" said Pauline.

Charles allowed himself a smile. “You must be hungry,” he began. "Let me ring-"

Hawkeye shook his head, “The nurses got me a sandwich at the hospital."

"Hospital?!" But Hawkeye didn't seem injured in any way.

With a glance at the children, the other man said in a low tone, "Later...,"and then, more loudly, asked, “Do you girls _have_ time for another game?" At their eager assent and Charles' nod, he went on, "Charlotte, how about you and me against your dad and Pauline? Just to make it more interesting.” With that, Hawkeye helped the children set up the checkers board again; and they played first one game then another, until Charles suddenly saw the clock and realised it was well-past his daughters’ bedtime.

“Pauline, don’t dawdle!” he chivvied the older girl whose steps were reluctant while he carried the younger up piggyback. “Your mother will not be happy when she hears how late you stayed up.” 

“Can’t Uncle Hawkeye read us a story?” piped up a little voice in his ear. 

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“I’m thirsty,” Pauline tried. “Mom always lets me have a glass of water.” 

“Little one,” her father spoke gravely, “if you have not realised by now that your mother and I differ in some key respects, I have grave doubts about your intelligence.”

The child giggled. Hawkeye smiled as he listened. 

“How would it be if _I_ sang you to sleep?” 


	8. Chapter 8

It was fully twenty minutes before Charles returned to the study. Hawkeye's face lit up as he came in holding a tray loaded with thinly sliced cold roast beef, French baguette with curls of butter, pate and crackers, shrimp vol-au-vents, and crudités and dip.

"I thought it must be a while since that sandwich," was all Charles said.

For a while, both men paid attention to their food. Afterwards, though, Charles crossed to the credenza and proffered a distinctive triangular bottle. 

“Make mine a double, please. I've had quite a day." There was a brief silence as Hawkeye took a sip from the glass. “Ah, Glenfiddich – nectar of the gods! ” He took another sip.

"You said 'hospital'?" Charles poured himself a cognac, before turning to claim his usual chair.

Hawkeye had stretched out on the loveseat, and was studying the light that glinted amber in his glass of scotch. "The traffic was pretty grim,” he began. “So, of course, one idiot decided to pass when there wasn’t enough space, with the inevitable result.” He looked up.

“You stopped?” Of course he stopped, Charles chided himself. Hawkeye was the one who _always_ stopped. 

“And was caught there for what felt like _hours_ ,” Hawkeye said, “though in comparison to some of the gruelling sessions I remember from Korea I suppose it wasn't too bad. Lots of contusions and a couple of simple fractures; but one really serious injury that needed considerably more than the meagre skills of the ambulance crew." He grimaced. "First aid is all very well; but for anything more than scrapes, those ambulances should have something more along the lines of the medics they had at battalion aid."

Charles nodded. It was not the first time he had heard Hawkeye say this.

"I arrived in Boston in the ambulance and took a taxi here once I'd seen the victim into surgery, but it all meant I didn't get here quite as early as planned. I am sorry, but tomorrow morning I'll need you to drive me back to where I had to abandon my car." 

"No problem."

Hawkeye tossed off his glass with one deep swallow and held it out in mute request. Charles freshened both their drinks, put the bottle back, and turned to see his friend looking pensively into nowhere. Silently, he sat down and sipped.

“You know one of the things I like about visiting you?” said Hawkeye suddenly.

“No, but I feel confident you’ll enlighten me,” Charles drawled.

“That damn-crazy horn.” With the hand that held his glass, Hawkeye gestured towards the fanciful instrument mounted on the wall. 

Charles chuckled. “You know Donna doesn’t let me play it either.”

“It _can_ be played?” Hawkeye asked incredulously. He'd seen the thing up there at every visit to Boston, and never realized.

“At the very end, I had to wait in Seoul for a week with not much to do before transport was organised, so I found a little man who was able to give it a mouthpiece.” 

“You were stuck too? I got out of Korea fast enough, but spent three days hanging round in Tokyo.” 

“Tokyo….” Charles sighed. “What I wouldn’t have given to have had three days in Tokyo – lots to keep oneself occupied there.”

“Yes, lots to do….” 

Charles sipped his brandy, saying nothing to disturb his friend’s reverie. He wondered if Hawkeye would confide, but instead, after a few minutes silence he began to discuss the paper he was presenting at tomorrow’s conference. There was a world of feeling buried under the detail of medical expertise; Charles was all too familiar with how one used work to distract. Medicine could be a demanding career and when one took pride in one’s accomplishments, it wasn’t as difficult as the average person might think to immerse oneself in the minutiae of surgical techniques and new research about treatments to the exclusion of everything else. 

Inevitably, discussion about the deplorable financial problems faced by hospitals turned the discussion to politics. It provided a comfortable and familiar debate between them, ranging all the way from erudite and well-evidenced points of argument to name-calling. 

“At least LBJ is trying to do something for the poor and the sick,” argued Hawkeye. 

“By allowing the uneducated hoi-polloi from across the world to come? How is that going to help us raise the general skill-level of the great unwashed here at home?” 

And they were off again, as always. There was one thing they both agreed on, however: the futility of the Vietnam War. 

“The strength of feeling at that sit-down in LA last June,” said Hawkeye, shaking his head, “if he continues his current policies, Johnson won’t stand a chance at re-election next year. Though there is always Bobby Kennedy, I suppose.”

The next election, Charles thought. The formal campaign to choose candidates was still a few months away but the behind-the-scenes jockeying for nominations had begun. He decided just to listen while Hawkeye ranted. Charles distrusted Nixon, loathed Romney, and had no time for the pseudo-liberalism of Rockefeller. He would vote, of course. It was the responsible thing to do; if men of his breeding and education failed to vote there would be nothing to counterbalance the ill-educated who were so easily swayed by demagogues. But he did not like the choices facing him these days. Alas, he had to admit (if only to himself) that there was actually more talent amongst the opposition candidates. He could not, of course, say so - and continued in silence.

Lacking someone to argue against, Hawkeye was winding down. For a moment, Charles did consider keeping him going by throwing in an acerbic comment or two; but they had both said it all before. 

“Another drink, you unrepentant Democrat?” 

Charles fetched the bottle and poured another measure into Hawkeye’s glass. If he knew his friend, Hawkeye had reached the stage when he tended to reminisce. 

“Remember that Turkish soldier with the foot wound?” Hawkeye began.

“What I remember,” retorted Charles, “was his crazy Captain that we had to stop shooting up Post-Op.”

And at little later in the conversation….

“Those parcels you used to get from home. They were amazing.” 

“They saved my sanity,” Charles admitted. “The dreadful muck they served in the mess-tent was barely edible at best; but that time when the food was cooked in canned milk because the water delivery was delayed has to rank as one of the worst periods of my life.”

“As I recall everyone else smelled to high heaven while you used that case of Vichy-water your family sent you from home for a regular shower and shave!” 

“Highly irregular showers if you ask me.”

Finally….

“Remember burying the time capsule?” Hawkeye said.

“I remember the decision to add Radar’s teddy bear.” 

“I remember how irate Margaret became because I wanted to add one of Klinger’s dresses.” 

Charles chuckled. 

“Margaret…was such an amazing woman,” Hawkeye said softly. “We were on opposite sides in almost everything; but you always could count on her absolutely in a crisis. Sometimes I wonder what happened to her.” 

He fell silent. 

Charles felt the weight of knowledge, unspoken between them. Clearly Hawkeye had no idea. He considered offering some trite suggestion about the likelihood Margaret had married and had a family; it would turn the conversation onto less dangerous ground. But he could not bring himself to it. It would be obfuscation rather than outright lie. But he was bound by doctor/patient confidentiality not to let on he knew Margaret was even living in the New England area, still less that she'd been his patient a few months before. And he had given his solemn oath to keep Margaret’s more personal secret. Nonetheless, it was hard. Having children himself, loving those children, Charles knew how much it would have meant to Hawkeye to have a son. It all meant Charles felt duty-bound to keep strictly to the truth. Someday perhaps…. 


	9. Chapter 9

It was getting late. Charles hated to draw the evening to a close. Hawkeye’s visits were too infrequent for him to do anything but resent losing in mere sleep the time he could have spent with his friend. But they would both need to be up early for work the next day. The reminiscences had gradually petered out and for the last hour they had been listening to WCRB while sipping one last drink. 

Now Hawkeye stood and crossed to the bow window, where he pulled the heavy velvet drapes half-open and stood, his back to his friend, staring out at the tall spire of the Church of the Covenant that he could see in the distance. 

“It’s times like these I envy you, Charles. Not the mansion and the panelled walls and fine dining, though don’t get me wrong, they’re nice too. But you have two adorable daughters – and your wife! Who’d have imagined between the two of us you’d have been the one to marry and I’d still be in bachelor quarters.”

“A Winchester always marries,” Charles said gravely. “Our family position and status demands it; and as an only son it fell to me to carry on the family name." (Not that he had achieved _that_ , though he remembered only joy at the birth of both his daughters.) "But I was extremely fortunate to marry Donna,” he acknowledged. 

“Twice!” Hawkeye cried. “To marry her twice!” 

“Indeed,” Charles nodded. “That trip to Tokyo was most fortuitous.” 

He chose not explain that the evening he and Donna met she was the recipient of his drunken confession to unrequited passion for Hawkeye. It had been pure serendipity Donna had listened sympathetically – and utter relief the next morning when he learned she was the soul of discretion, having her own secrets to keep. Relief which had led to another drunken binge and that hasty first ‘marriage’ and an enduring friendship. 

“We make a good team,” Charles mumbled. That last glass had definitely been one too many and he was embarrassed to realise he was struggling to choose his words. 

“You know for years I told myself my problem was I met the right woman at the wrong time.” Hawkeye swivelled back to look at his friend, “I did tell you about Carly didn’t I?”

“Yes,” drawled Charles. Many, many times; it was his common lament once he hit the maudlin stage. 

“Lately.…” he hesitated. “Do you remember your Shakespeare?” 

“ _It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,_ ” Charles quoted. 

“Yes…,” Hawkeye shrugged. “I know that’s what I’ve always said…. But it’s the wrong line, Charles.”

“Wrong line?” 

“From the wrong play!” And as Charles looked quizzical he cried, “not _Romeo and Juliet_ but _Hamlet!_ ” 

“ _Hamlet?_ ” 

“Look at me Charles! Do I look like a man to give up everything for love and not count the cost? _Me!_ But Hamlet! All those people stumbling about making a convoluted mess of their own lives and those of all the people around them because they couldn’t be honest with themselves.” 

“Polonius,” Charles whispered. 

“The truth of it is, every time I’ve had a major decision to make, I’ve turned away from marriage and family and the quiet life with the country practice and nice close circle of friends, the hearth and home and white picket fence. I did it before I went to Korea – I did it after. My _father_ was the country GP and knew every patient he ever had cradle to grave. _I_ went into surgery.” 

“You are a brilliant trauma surgeon, Hawkeye,” Charles reassured. “A lot of people owe their lives to the choices you made.” 

“I know,” Hawkeye said heavily, “and I don’t regret any of them. I know my skills and my drive; I know I yearned for Crabapple Cove every second I was in Korea; but I’d have been bored silly had I stayed there. “ 

“Then what…?” 

“I’ve been straight with myself about my career, but I’ve not done the same with the rest of my life…. I’ve not been honest about you…and me.” 

All his life Charles had been taught to be careful. From the first moment he set foot in Korea he had expected nothing positive; but against all the odds he had found several people to respect, and this one man whom he had come to care for deeply. Their friendship had not simply endured; it had flourished. Proximity had undoubtedly had its part to play in this; had they lived the opposite sides of the continent they might have remained in contact, but the friendship would likely have diminished. (Look at Hawkeye’s friendship with BJ; at the 4077th they had been much closer than he and Hawkeye but now their correspondence had dwindled to twice yearly cards on birthdays and Christmas, while he and Hawkeye met almost every month.) But his resigned acceptance of their differences had also played its part. And patience. And the restraint and self-discipline so characteristic of a Winchester. Never allowing himself to hope.

Now Charles watched with dawning wonderment as Hawkeye left the window, came to stand by his chair, and held out his hand. 

“Let me help you up, old friend.”

And when Charles stumbled slightly on rising – (he really had had too much cognac) – Hawkeye steadied him and drew his face to Hawkeye’s own.

“I am too drunk to _do_ anything you understand,” Hawkeye whispered.

Charles gave a snort of laughter, “Yes, indeed, my own flesh is equally weak.” 

* * * * * 

It was half-past two in the morning and all the servants were long since in bed, when the taxi brought Donna Marie Winchester home. She closed the front door and headed toward the staircase, diverting at the last minute when she noticed a light shining under the study door. Peeping inside, she saw the two of them slumped on the floor leaning against the love seat. Charles snored gently, drink forgotten beside him. His friend Hawkeye was snuggled into his side, head on shoulder; an empty bottle lay on the carpet before him. She sighed; they would no doubt pay for this bacchanale in the morning. The family poodle had crept into the room when she opened the door and now crouched to their right, wolfing down the long-forgotten remains of their late-night repast.

She smiled; it was always this way when those two met. It was fortunate Hawkeye did not visit more often or that dog would be as fat as a house. 

“Goodnight sodden prince - sleep well, dear knight of honour,” she whispered before blowing an unseen kiss to Charles, _"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment."_

Then she turned out the light and went to bed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Winchester Always](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20325145) by [greerwatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson)




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